Pathetic Loser
by Rumored.Girl
Summary: Life can be played as fantasy. Life can be played as reality. And to some, life is played like a game of hide-and-seek. To those, all that matters is the nutrition label on a box of granola bars, the magic number on a scale, and the inches around a waist.
1. Only Hopes

Everything is spinning, blurring together and becoming beautiful again. This soul did not belong in heaven, but in purgatory, waiting for the time when it is healed and whole again. I am the wind in your face, the paint in your toes, and the lies in your mouth. I am the girl hiding in the corner, too afraid to play. The whispers and secrets that others speak get caught in the air; I am their victim and the next mind up for auction.

I am invisible. I walk through empty corridors filled with faces. I walk to the side, reading pages filled with blank spaces. The nonsense spoken in school classrooms fills my ears, not staying in my head. The fog in my head keeps my judgment slow, my movements obvious. These legs walk out the door, noticeable to anybody that looks. But nobody ever looks.

My father's house in the hills awaits me. The door is still unlocked, daddy dearest forgetting to lock it on his way in to work. It is 1:45; I should be sitting in my fourth hour by now, learning about the Gilded Age and Andrew Carnegie. Into the house I go, pausing at the coat hangers outside the laundry room to take off my blue wool coat and mittens. Winter is here with a vengeance. Once I am past the kitchen and up the stairs, I stop to pause at a picture of myself and Toby, taken when he was just a baby. I was six years old when it was taken, my life still filled with coloring and Barbie dolls. I still had a whole family to be with. A mother, though mostly absent from home; a father, just beginning his business. This body continues up the stairs, just a shell of memories and hurt.

Everything could be perfect again, just like it once was. I want to be whole, and real, and perfect. I cannot be perfect, I cannot be the best. I never was, and I never will be. And that is what I promise. Toby can be perfect. Toby is perfect. His eyes are bright and wondrous at the world, not scarred by evil and hate. He got student of the month for his sixth grade class, his picture is hanging outside the office walls.

My shoes are leaving prints in the carpet; it was just cleaned last week. My door is still closed and my hand reaches out to open it. My fingers curl around the handle, slowly turning it to the left. My disaster awaits me. I really need to do laundry. Clothes are strewn haphazardly across the floor; library books cover my bed instead of a blanket. The walls stare back at me an ugly dark red, almost black; it is the same color as the blood traveling back to my heart, dead in my veins.

I can hear the door open downstairs, two voices talking, laughing, unaware of my presence. One is dad's voice; the other is his flavor of the month. In February she was blonde, in March he was a ginger, and now in April, what awaits me? Will it be male or female, what color hair, the same age as me again? After Mom left Dad, he decided that he was also attracted to men. That announcement through everyone through more of a loop than the divorce announcement did.

I crawl into my bed, push most of the books to the side, and pick my blanket up off the floor. I wrap it around my body, praying that it will warm me up. I find a book to read and surround myself with its 12-point, Courier New fortress. Books are the only thing that I have left; they are my only and last hope for sanity. They give me a break from reality and a little time to breathe. Books always keep their promises; they don't hide behind a veil of light, and always tell me the truth. They are my only real friend. As I read through the text, my mind starts to wander. It remembers the feeling of sun in my face and joy in my heart. I want that again. I can't have that again.

My mind drifted further off than I thought. When I re-opened my eyes, it was eight at night. My mouth was dry and my stomach rumbling. I must stay strong. My eyes are weary and still tired, but my back was happy for the break. I walked back through the hallway and down the stairs, almost falling on the last step. I stroll into the kitchen and get a glass from the cabinet next the stove. Dad and his friend have left again. As I go to the sink to fill it with water, I can hear the voices of faded memories. First it was only the voices, but the visuals soon followed.

Mom was walking through the kitchen, Dad right behind her. They made a bee-line for the family room, anxious to sit down and say what needed to be said as soon as possible. They had been divorced for a few years already. I was still standing by the sink, watching as my fifteen year old self hid behind the stairwell to listen; even then I knew it was about me. At first their voices were quiet, just barely above a whisper. I had to strain my ears to listen, and even then I only caught a little bit. Their voices grew, though, and yelling followed.

Mom knew I was losing weight. She had spent enough time and money for a psychology degree and around her patients to know what this was. My father refused to believe her. I was still his precious angel, even if I had lost a few pounds. I wasn't sick, he argued, just eating healthy and exercising a little more. He was blind, but he won the battle. Nothing was wrong with me. Then I jolt back to reality.

I turn on the tap and fill up my glass. I may as well take my crazy candies. They are supposed to keep my mind sane, away from dangerous thoughts. I guess they need to up the dosage.

* * *

**so, I've decided to edit the first couple of chapter, so updates will be few ans far between for a little bit. **


	2. Goal Number One

Except that didn't happen. Not really. Only in my day dreams would I tell my "parents" that I wouldn't go back to that place. To the place where dreams of size zero become lost and crazies are called "eating disordered visitors". Where doctors don't exist, only professional mental stabilizers and pretty little pills. I won't go back there. At least not today.

No, I stay behind the thin barrier of dry wall and paint. It's the only thing that can protect me now. Slowly, as not to make a sound, my legs carry my up, up, and away, to the top of the staircase. They move to my door, my hands reach out and grasp the door. They pull it open, and after the thing that is my body walks in, they close it behind me. I crawl into my bed, and pick up my knitting. I'm running out of yarn.

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

I should pick some more up. Maybe this time I'll buy blue. Frozen-ice blue, like the color you get when you're suffocating beneath the water and you keep falling deeper and deeper under the friendly lake water. Suddenly I find myself not able to breathe, but I keep knitting. That's how I breathe now. I'm trying to make a hat, but the stitches dropped from angry fights with myself and the double stitched from not paying attention make it look more like a pile of squiggly strings colliding with each other.

Dr. Matchbrooke, the all-important adult-only psychologist, walks in. She pretends to understand me. I pretend to be asleep. She can't tell the difference between real

and fake.

She's used to people telling them all of their secrets. She's to used to not telling them hers. The kitting in my hands is removed, and put to my side. We sit/lay in silence, her to awkward to say anything else, me still in my cocoon of tangled strings and knitted lies. She gets up off my bed. I don't know what happened next. I fell asleep.

-------------

I wake up sometime in the night. The whole house/neighborhood/world is asleep. Everythingbody besides me. I just can't seem to fit in. My feet carry me to the hallway, down the stairway, through the kitchenette, to the backdoor, I grab my keys, and into the garage I go. I climb onto my car (90,000 miles, but very cheap). It takes me down to the 24-hour drug store 15 minutes away, but it can't take me in. And that means that I have to get up. I don't want to.

The doors open on their own, and I walk on auto-pilot to the scales. I find one of the killer accurate digital scales not even bothering to look at the price. I have three years worth of 7 dollars an hour in baby-sitting money. I walk down all the other aisles, trying to find the laxatives. The last time I checked I was almost out. My total was fifty dollars.

On my way home a blinking light turns on. I don't know what it's for. I should ask Alex. I really miss him. Maybe tomorrow I'll go and visit him. But I can't let him see me like this. Or at least I shouldn't. But I shouldn't even be seeing him, though.

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

My car doesn't take me home. It takes me to a park I used to go to when I was little. Legs that are the size of logs step in front of me. I think that they're mine. I'm carried to the swings. They're my favorite part. I swing until I can't see the ground any more. I swing until I can't think about anything. I swing untill all I see is Alex's face. I swing until the sun comes up. I don't think anyone knows where I am. Maybe some creeper will come out of the bushes any second now and grab me. I won't be able to fight him, I'm too weak. He'll chop my body up into bite-sized pieces, and then when some soccer mom letting her kids roam free will discover my disembodied head and scream. They won't even know it's me until they look at the dental records of all the missing little girls of America, the beautiful.

That doesn't happen. I arrive home before anyone is awake. Maybe I really am dead, and this is just my ghost. Somehow I get myself back into my bed, and go back into dream-land. Nobody can hurt me there.

By the time I wake up again, it's almost noon. Somebody is singing faintly in the kitchen, and I smell eggs. They make me want to vomit. The scale I bought last night creeps out of its bag and into my bathroom. Weight must always be measured on a flat surface. My feet step on it. The numbers fly across the screen. 99.0 pounds. Goal number one is achieved.

My head feel like I just drank a bottle of champagne. I'm flying on satin clouds and don't have a care in the world. I'm standing on Goal number one.


	3. White, plastic walls

I pulled up into the parking lot. It's 11:29 am. The jeans that I'm wearing keep digging into the fat on my hips. I should've changed them before I left for school. My car door opens, and my legs carry me out. Before I can fully comprehend that I'm out of the car, I'm inside the building, and it's too late to turn back.

The secretary smiles. I think my heart might have just

stopped.

"Excuse me, could you please tell me what room Alex Cardin is in?" My voice slowly creeps out of my throat, as it's testing the hospital-infected air.

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

"Sure, Sweetie. Just give me one moment." Her voice is too high, and her lips are covered in candy-apple red lipstick. BMI 32.

I look down at my feet. My once white sneakers are now stained to a dirty brown. You can't see all the bad words that Alex and me wrote on them. That was a couple of years ago. The nurse comes back.

"He's in room 759, in the ICU."

Walking toward the sign that read in big, bold, red letters 'Intensive Care Unit', my mind started to panic. What would I say to him? 'I'm sorry I'm so fucked up; I never meant to hurt you?' That sounds real nice. He probably hates me right now. How can you not hate me, though? I hate me. I hate how fat I am, I hate the way I think, I hate the way I feel. I hate everything about me. It's not even me. Some imposter has taken over my body, and they control my thoughts. I don't even exist.

The sweater that I'm wearing is cutting off the circulation to my brain. I can't breathe and the shiny, newly painted porcelain white walls that were built to judge are pushing down on my skull. There are no newly painted walls in my body. All of them were built for strength, to keep people out. I didn't want them to look pretty. They were meant to un-clutter my brain from everyone else's problems. They don't work right.

My hand stretches out and grabs the door handle. It twists, and the door swings open. I can't see anything. Someone sits up in the hospital bed. Well, at least I know that he's not dead.

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

"Hey."

"Hey." His voice is weak. Weaker than mine is. I think that we're both afraid to trust ourselves around each other again.

"So… what have the devils in white coats say about you?" It was the only thing I could think about.

"Haha. They say I should be out in a couple of weeks, but I'll have to go to physical therapy for quite a while." He had that stupid grin on his face again; the one where he knew that he could piss me off and not be able to stop it.

The plastic wrap that had been tightly wrapped around my head had been torn away, and all the weird feelings of guilt and despair were gone. It was just me and him again, and we were having a great time with it.

Walking out of that hospital, on that day, was a terrible idea. Because now it can only get worse again. And when things get worse, people start to notice that I'm not

perfect.


	4. Bloodstained Carpet

My fingers are bleeding. My fingers are bleeding. My fingers are bleeding. My face is bleeding. My hands are bleeding. My legs are bleeding. Everything is BLEEDING. I can't concentrate on anything, and everything is slowly going to hell. Lying in bed, the sea of wine-colored, thick, sticky blood is starting to pool all around me. And all I can do is lie there. I want to get up, pretend that I'm normal, go outside and walk over to some friend's house. Maybe we could go grab a coffee, chat about how much we hate our teachers. My growling stomach is telling another story, though.

It's saying that I can never be good enough, that in order to be loved, I have to be able to count my ribs. See every mark in my skin. Love the monster inside of me, the only thing that matters is skinny. 99 pounds, 80 pounds, 75 pounds. That's what I am. I am a number, only glorified when I step on a scale. People just don't understand it. In this deadly game of life, the only thing you can do to keep you head above the water, keep yourself from dying, is to hide in perfection. You can't get hurt when you wear a mask, pretend to be something you're obviously

Not.

Sometimes, though, mistakes get made. People take off their mask, brave the jungle. Those people are the people that go crazy. They start to realize how out society isn't a place where they want to live, but they can never escape it. No matter how far they run, how much they puke how much weight they lose, they will always fail. Those people put a gun to their heads and pull the trigger. End it all. Become a ghost.

Not me, though. I'm stuck in limbo. I don't even have to courage to take a gun to my head. Instead, I block out the worlds flaws by blocking out everything. I'm numb. I don't eat. It makes me feel better. When I see I've lost another pound, I feel as if something is alright in the world. Maybe it's not so messed up. But then my head starts to hurt and sensations rush through my body. Pain shoots through my legs, my fingertips lose all feeling. My hair falls out. But I'm skinny. That's what matters. Blocking out the world, being skinny, looking on the outside what I want to look like.

Sitting up, I look all around me. My walls and ceiling are white. They are blank, clean canvases, ready to be painted. To my tired, old eyes, they just look plain. Boring, dull. My tiny dresser in the corner that holds all of my possessions looks worn out. There are too many things inside of it, and it's starting to purge them out. Just like me. Then, my gaze falls to my bed. The once clean blue sheets are now forever stained by my blood. The sheets and bedspread are a dark crimson. There is a trail of blood going into the bathroom. The long, sharp knife that inflicted all of this damage to my body is still lying on the floor. It is my forever savior. It reminds me that deep inside me there still is a real person, unused to the fake, plastic faces the world like to wear. I shed my plastic mask long ago, in favor of instead wearing a bone corset reminding me to keep my mouth laced shut.

Into the bathroom these feet carry me. I strip off my ruined clothes, step into the shower. Turning it on, I make sure the water is too hot, so my body will be pure of ugly lies and fat truths. I will just be me. I can be 99 pounds of me. I can be 99 pounds of glory. 99 pounds of nothing. When I get out, my mind start to reel and I feel light-headed. I keep the shower running, slowing bend down to the toilet, and gag up lunch. One of my hands reaches out to turn off the shower, while the other flushes. I dry myself off, and walk out of the bathroom as if nothing happened.

Daddy's home. He's been home this entire time and never knew anything was wrong. Never realized that his little girl has been screaming for the last half hour. Doesn't know his wife is screwing around just two houses down. Or maybe he does, and just chooses to ignore it. Hide festering wounds and unsightly boils beneath the neatly trimmed hedges and perfectly cut lawns of suburbia.

As I walk back into my room, I notice that Toby's door is open. He's sitting on his bed, staring right through me. Right through my opened door. Staring right into my nightmare. He see's all the blood, the knife I put on my dresser. He know's that I've made a mess. His small, 7-year-old mouth opens. There isn't a scream. He falls down to his knees, and cries.

"Toby!" Rushing over to his side never felt easier. This time there was no awkward moments, just a hurting brother, and a hurting sister, trying to figure out the world together.

His breath is coming in short gasps, and long ragged gulps. I think that mine is too. He asked me why I don't eat, why there is blood on my carpet, and a knife in my room. I don't explain it. I can't explain it. Toby is my only brother, my only sibling. I can't corrupt his mind with demons and nightmares. I can't just watch him become more like every single day. I will never do that. To him, the world will always be firefighters beating he fire, policemen saving people. I don't want to tell him that the world is a bad place. So, instead, I turn him the other way, let him cry, console him, and tell him its all just a dream. He'll wake up soon, and everything will be better.


	5. Mantra to the Porcelain God

But I won't wake up soon. This girl that I am, this girl that is me, she is forever doomed to be only to awake. And I can't bear that.

Creeping down the stairs, I turn on the television from the kitchen. I grab a couple of carrots and some soda. The local news is on. Deciding not to change the channel, I walk over to the couch and plop down. There are two thick blankets handed down from generation to generation covering my contorted little body. And it's still not enough. There will never be enough around to keep me safe and warm. Just watching the news confirms that. A man shot his own child four days ago, he's pleading guilty. I knew his child.

I babysat for him and his now ex-wife. The news has changed from death and disgrace to an uplifting hero's story. It's going to make me gag. Nobody is good because they want to be. Not anymore. I think I will go barf, actually. Carrots don't agree with my stomach. Getting up like an old woman (or man), I take both blankets with me into the bathroom. The door shuts softly with a 'click' and I fall to my knees.

I am worshipping this porcelain god. This is the center of my life. Starve, starve, binge, purge, eat, starve, repeat. This porcelain god has become my life. Starve, starve, binge, purge, eat, starve, repeat. Grabbing the toilet brush from under the sink, I make sure to meticulously clean the entire toilet. Starve, starve, binge, purge, eat, starve, repeat. After it sparkles and shines like no other, my head slowly bends down into its watery grave. Starve, starve, binge, purge, eat, starve, repeat. Starve, binge, purge, eat, starve, starve, binge, purge, eat, repeat. Starve, starve, binge, purge, eat, starve, starve, binge, purge, eat, starve, binge, purge, eat, starve, starve, binge, purge, eat, repeat.

This is my mantra. These are the words that I must live by. These are the things that keep me alive, steel-ribbed and strong. The deed is done, my life is a clean artists' palate again. The toilet needs a good cleaning and disinfecting, and after that has been done, I grab my spare toothbrush in the cabinet above the sink and scrub my teeth to a pearly white. I am new, I am alive, and I am clean.

The couch has now become occupied by a comfy looking Toby, who seems to be over what has happened earlier. He's changed the channel to silly cartoons. I join him with all of by blanketed glory, sitting down in the chair opposite of him. But just as soon as my but hits the chair, he speaks up, saying he just want to sit by himself. I guess he isn't over it.

Neither am I.

Dad walks out of his study, his shelter, his fortress. Asks what we want for dinner. I lie, and say I'm starving (don't want him getting in my case, too) and I could really go for some Chinese. He doesn't sense anything amiss, and I even offer to go order and pick it up. I'll do anything to get out of this coffin-house. Climbing the stairs up to my room feels like it takes forever and three years, but I get there. Going into my room to grab my purse, an idea strikes me.

I quickly strip of all of my clothes, and step onto the bathroom scale.

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

99.54 pounds. Okay, that's not bad. I can get through dinner so long as I keep that number in my head. And it will stay in my head. Getting re-dressed, I walk back into my room and grab my keys and purse. After I make it back down the stairs, Daddy Dearest hands me a crisp $50 and a list of what he and Toby want. It all looks disgusting. It all looks delicious.

The restaurant reeks of American style Chinese food in all of its greasy wonder, and I can't help but to inhale the smell. The sent travels through my entire body, and goes up to my brain. It fills it up, and I can't think properly anymore. All I can think about is food. Food. Food.

"May I help you?" Oh, right, I had to order.

"Um… Cam I have a pint of Cashew Chicken, and a pint of vegtable lo mein?" It smells so good; I just want to live here.

"Is that for here or to go?" I think I know her…

"To go, please."

I think I'll wait for the food outside. It usually takes 15 minutes to make, so I'll just go over to the party store and get a liter of sprite while I wait. Then I'm not totally bored.

When I get back home, Toby notices that I didn't get any food for myself. I said that it smelled so good, I stole some of their food on the way home. Dad didn't buy it, but he let me go upstairs without an argument. I almost fell getting up the stairs, but I caught myself just in time. By the time I reached my bed, I was so tired I didn't even bother closing my door to hide my disaster.

I fell into sleep.


	6. And I Open Bloodshot Eyes

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

It's June 27th. No, the 28th. It's early Thursday morning, and children are playing and outside in the street. They sing songs of roses and daises, and speak of how they can't wait for middle school, and seeing boys, and talking to long-lost friends. They are dancing around in a circle, to silly to open their own eyes. The ones that are brave enough to open their eyes never make it out of middle school alive. The brave ones walk alone, and talk alone, and are alone.

Some say that I am not a member of the Brave-One tribe. Too-skinny girls that hide themselves in books and are terrified of what they look at every day are not brave. No, they are sick little creatures. They should not be called brave. I'm afraid that I'm not a Brave-One. But being a Brave-One would be even scarier.

As the eyelids on my face flutter open and stare out the window into empty space, my brain realizes that the shower down the hall has turned on. Dad, up just in time to take a freezing cold shower, give a still sleeping Toby a kiss on the forehead, and run out the door because he's almost late for work again. This "family's" day will go like normal: Daddy dearest will hide behind mountains of work, Toby will go to summer school and be numbed with information no seven year old wants to know, and I will hide behind a smokescreen of smiles and lies. Just like normal.

I am awake. I swing my legs over the side of my bed, and push my body off the mattress. Today is a day I work. My room is a mess, and I need to clean up all the blood on the carpet. Dad screamed when he saw. All the money he and Mom wasted on therapy and rehabilitation was slowly going to waste, and here was the evidence in his house in the hills. He called mom, mom called Dr. Keller, and Dr. Keller called me. I didn't answer.

I'm such a screw-up.

Going into the cleaning closet, I quickly find all the supplies I need to purge a carpet of an ugly stain. The bottle of de-staining stuff says that it contains bleach and should not be handled by those under the age of 12. I spray, spray, spray the chemical solution onto my carpet, and try as I might, the stain will not leave my sight. This red/black trail of my mistakes can't leave me alone. This red/black trail of my mistakes keeps me grounded on what is real, and reminds me of things I wish I could forget. I give up on the stain. Back to cleaning land these yellow rubber gloves and stain fixer go. Back into exile, back into freedom.

Toby should now be up and waiting for me to take him to summer school. My walk to the first floor of the house is leisurely at best, and by the time I get downstairs Toby is already tuned out and in front of the T.V. His shoes are sitting right next to him, but he makes no move to put them on as I walk closer.

"Tobes, I got to take you today. I know school sucks, but come on." Truer words have never been spoken out of my mouth. I don't want to be stuck in this house any more, and if Toby is late one more time, his teacher will scream at dad and mom, who will scream at Toby, who will scream at me.

After Toby is dropped off, I make my way to the shitty Seven-Eleven on Elm Street, where I work three days a week. At least it's better than baby sitting was. Its 10:30 by the time I get there, and my manager's face is purple and angry looking when I walk through the sliding glass doors. She won't fire me though, because I actually do bother do show up for work, unlike three quarters of the staff here.

Two creepy guys, one small boy, and a homeless looking lady pass through before I start thinking about Alex, and the night that I lost control. I can't believe it happened in the first place. We were both at some party that didn't even matter. I got a little too tipsy, but he was full out drunk. It was safer if I took the wheel, he said. I was better at looking sober, anyway. He didn't know I was high. The next time I opened my eyes, I was watching as Alex's mangled body being put on the stretcher and carried away from me. I thought that he was dead; it looked like he was. It was all. my. FAULT. My car was twisted around a tree and the driver's side door was smashed in. There was another car off to the side that I hit as well. Everybody was fine. Only a couple if scratches and some bleeding. Everybody besides Alex. He was almost dead. Alex did die that night in the ambulance, but he was given a second chance at life by the artist in the ambulance.

I was brought to the hospital, too. I was stranded there for the night, and was not allowed under any circumstances to visit Alex. That night, I pondered my place in the world. What had I to show except the promises I never kept? I lie there shaking on that bed under the weight of my regrets, and I was so damn scared. I'll never forgive myself for that night. Never.

My memory trance is broken when somebody loudly clears their throat and buys some cookies and a coffee. They were the last customer before the end of my shift. I hang up my apron, and exit the store through the back door.

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::


	7. Of Sickness and Health

Orange and yellow and pink swirl around me. The head on my shoulders is warm and sways back and forth. My mouth swings open and a smile forms on my lips. The arms connected to my torso fly outwards and my legs sprint around in a circle. Flowers are at my feet, heaven is on the horizon.

My vision crashes down around me. I am not in heaven. I am sitting on the ground behind the Seven-Eleven, chest heaving from insanity. Tears were falling down my cheeks the entire time, burning hot and angry and jealous at my moment of peace. They couldn't be contained. Before my breath catches up with me, I run to my car. I don't know where I am going to go. I don't have anywhere I need to be. I'm too broke to just drive around. I can't deal with seeing Alex again. Hospital beds weren't made for him. My mind settles on the library. Quiet and peaceful and easy to hide; easy to curl up in a chair and forget the world. There are books to explore, and other people's lives to lead. I don't have to be me for a while. I can forget everything.

When I arrive, the building is nearly empty. The lady at the front desk looks up and says 'hello', but my mouth is too tired to reply. The fireplace is burning a forest's supply of wood, and as an effect the room feels warm and the air is dry. My feet walk through aisles of fairy-tales, biographies, winning essays, and poems. My mind wanders off to a distant place, disconnected to my body. I am on auto-pilot. My hands pick up a copy of Albert Camus' _The Plague_. It's not exactly my style, but I'll give it a try. I find a comfy chair and settle in; it's going to be dark before I make my way home. I don't need to worry about Toby; he is staying at mother dearest's for the weekend.

I lose myself, and forget myself. My mind is transported to Algeria; my body becomes wracked with disease. Before I realize the day has passed, I am being shoved out of the library with a book in hand. I have two weeks to read it. My fingers have consumed the first sixty-five pages.

Driving home, I pass the only park in my small town. It has a few swings, a play structure, and memories of a childhood. I don't stop to reminisce. There isn't a point, and I can't believe in anything that has a rhyme or reason. People I know walk around the downtown district laughing and smiling and unaware that I exist. The lights in shops are beginning to turn off, their owners leaving to go home and lead another lie. The streets are lit up with street lamps and other cars' headlights, but everything is still in half light. Past the downtown area, into the subdivisions, you can see the division of wealth. The wealthy live is large plots of land far north of town, the poorer live in town or just south. Father lives ten minutes north. Everybody I used to know does, too.

When I enter what is supposed to be home, I walk straight to my room. There is no kitchen to think of, no living room to be part of a family in, nothing. My room is the only place on this house that is a refuge. There I can think, believe, dream. There I can do more than just be. I crawl onto the chair hiding in the corner of the room, pull my favorite blanket over me, and read more of _The Plague_. It really is a fantastic book.

* * *

Just a note, if you haven't read the Plague by Albert Camus, DO IT. He is an amazing author. After you read the plague, read everything else by him. :)


	8. Goal Number Two

The first thing that my conscience self realizes is that there is something on my head. It smells like thick paper, and it is. _The Plague_ is resting atop my head, just where it fell last night when I passed out. I need to eat something. I haven't eating since yesterday morning, and if I pass out in front of someone, this body will not be perfect anymore. First, though, I think a weighing is in order. It's been far too long, almost an entire week. I can't control my body right now, though; it is still numb from a night of restless sleep. I try to move my arm; it lifts up feeble and shaking. Time to tackle sitting up. It doesn't take as long as expected, but after I just sit for a while, thinking about everything. Mostly just about why I am here, why anyone is here. It's a good question, that one. Swinging my legs off of the bed and onto the floor seemed to be no hard task; my body is remembering all of the times that I've done this before.

Hands take down the scale from its resting place in the back of my closet. Feet carry me down the hallway and into the bathroom. Floorboards creek as I walk over wood. Nobody calls out; father is in the city, to busy to remember a dream. Hands close the door behind me; I am locked in my own head. The scale finds the floor, feet find the scale. For the first time, I do not shake and shiver as I step on, only look upwards at the ceiling. I am afraid to look. I am excited to look. I am nervous to look.

::fatass:liar:stupid:weak::

I smile.

I am ninety-six pounds. I am goal number two. One step closer to perfection, one step closer to the edge. With every pound lost comes a little more danger of losing this game. I live for that danger. It has eaten me alive. Some people thank that that means I am not healthy, living for danger. It makes me the healthiest person alive. I feel more than they do, see more than they do. Society hides behind a mask of secrets and lies. My mask was torn off and ripped apart. People just can't see that.

In the kitchen, fingers touch an apple, perfect and smooth. I crunch down on it, marking the beginning of the day. Today is Friday, there is nothing to do. It's summertime, no school. No work, no friends to hang out with. Dad made coffee, and there is a mug and coffee creamer sitting next to the coffee maker, just for me. This is his way of trying to get me to eat more, weigh more. I pour a cup of coffee, completely skipping the cream. I don't need it, not today. Legs stumble over to the couch, hands grab the remote control, my brains sends the signal to my hands to turn on the television. SpongeBob is on. I've seen this episode a thousand times, but I watch it still. Patrick and SpongeBob are jelly fishing in jellyfish fields, trying to get Squidward to jellyfish, as well. It doesn't work out well. Mindless cartoons fill my morning, Wordless thoughts fill the air. Am I suffocating, or am I breathing? I can't tell anything that I am doing. Sometime in the morning, I fall back asleep. When I awake, I am in the same spot. I am still covered in blankets; the coffee cup is on the ground. Everything is just where I left it, but nothing feels the same.

I have aged millions of years. The blankets feel like constricting cobwebs. The ceiling is a spider ready to eat. The eyes in my head dart around, my heart jumps in and out of its cage. Nothing is amiss. Everything is normal. I am just fine. The house is quiet. I don't know what has happened. I don't want to know what has happened. It never has happened.

It is two o'clock pm. It is the afternoon. The television is still playing something silly. I don't know what it is. The knees on my body pop as I stand up, stiff from lying so long. Upstairs is my book. So, up the stairs I go, getting my book. The pictures are ignored, in favor of looking at the floor. My room really is a disaster. I should clean it sometime. I don't care enough to do it, though. The book is sitting just where I left it, on the bed. It isn't open, so I'll have to skim and find what page I am on. First, though, I go back downstairs. I don't feel like looking at my disaster. My mind closes off.


	9. Lockup

Crashing, falling, spinning, cheating. Breaking, dancing, breathing, seeing. One more time. Breathing again, losing again, screaming again. Everything is the same, everything is always the same. Life is static when it hides behind roses and lies. But sometimes, life comes out to play.

I wish for that moment. That moment when I see everything; that moment when everything changes for the better. But who can say that I'd be changed for the better? Would everything become clear as crystal, or would it still be foggy and dim and gray? No. I will change. Family will change. The world will change. Life will change. So I wait, quietly and patiently for divine intervention, for nirvana, for peace, I wait for anything that will be my savior. But the blood still stains, my heart beats the same, and tears run down my face.

My world is falling, burning, crashing to the ground. I've been told that the life I live is a lie, stitched together by hunger and depression. The good doctors that see into my head know what is best for me. I am to be put into a sea of pills and needed things. There will be no coming out of it alive and in one piece. Claws in the darkness tear at my throat; small scratches outline at my wrists. What lurks in the unknown, ready to kill?

They will never know what haunts my shadows and hides in dreamland. My mouth will say what they want to hear and my mind won't leak information valuable for keeping this body in limbo. I am no more than just another living corpse, another number for somebody to diagnose and treat. I won't scream and kick and fight my way to freedom. Compliance and lies are my Underground Railroad, my northern star leading the way.

Ugly words are in the air, waiting to be said. I reach out and catch one, locking it up inside of my heart. The others get blown away by the wind, to another empty body filled with empty promises. Everybody tells me that I should feel lucky, that my life is good. They can't see what I see. With every turn of my head I see more destruction. Why bother to care? Eventually everything will be dead and gone, just another cycle in a meaningless history.

Somebody's words slice through the air. I know those words, I know that voice. My mind is a step behind my mouth, and I whisper back a hello. I want to reel it back inside my mouth, erase any evidence of my voice. I am faceless. I am nameless. The only way I can survive is if I am only a body walking through the streets. That is the only way anyone can survive here. This cold room is too much. My body can't handle it. I want to scream, to shout, to write, to tell the world. I am afraid of the outcome.

I am back in reality, out of the recesses of my mind. I can feel my heartbeat pounding in my chest, feet tucked beneath me. Somebody speaks again. This time words I want to speak do not escape their fortress. They are firmly secured behind teeth and lips. I say only what is wanted to be heard. My eyes see the truth. They take in the tiny room, the blank walls, the desk stacked with notes for other people. They see the snake sitting right in front of me. Dr. Keller asks another question, and her pointy nose and sharp tongue seem like they are going to poison me slowly. This time silence follows after she's spoken, and I put my feet back onto the floor. Today's session is almost over. Maybe I can slip away to nowhere after this. Dr. Keller's eyes look over at her clock. It is two minutes to two. She decides that that is enough for today, and I am freed of this prison for the week. For the moment I am free. What comes after freedom, I do not know.


End file.
